Bold Sons of Erin (41 page)

“Until Mary Boland put a knife into his chest.”

Again, Kehoe used language that scorched the night. “She should have been locked up a year ago. Two years. But Danny wouldn’t hear of it. God, man, she was mad when he married her. Everybody knew it. They warned him. But he would not hear a word said against her. Not one word. He would have fought ten men, each twice his size, if they so much as whispered his Mary was odd.”

“And you have no idea who told Mary Boland that General Stone had come to take her husband away.”

“If I did, I’d kill the man.”

“And you all made a promise to Danny Boland, didn’t you? To get him to go off and save himself, after his false confession? You made a promise not to turn Mary Boland in to the authorities.”

“He didn’t want to see her in a madhouse. Great Jesus, man. Do ye not know what those places are like, then?”

Yes. I knew.

“Why help me now?”

“Oh, why, indeed? It isn’t my choice, that much I’ll tell ye. But it’s clear enough that Mary can’t run free any longer. God bless poor Danny. If we have more murders, then what do ye think will happen? To us? If she had put that knife into your own chest last night? What would have been visited upon us in your loving memory?” He snickered. Nastily. Bitterly. “We’d have your damned troops all over us, worse than the English themselves. And ye’d carry men off in chains for your war for the niggers. Tell me, man, since ye happen to be such a clever one. What choice do we have? No choice but to help ye, bastard that ye are.”

“You saved my life last night. And I am grateful for that.”

“I didn’t save your life. I saved
us.
From the revenge that would have come after. Your life isn’t worth a dog’s piss to me. And now have ye had your answers enough? It’s a long walk to Gammon Hill, and not a friendly one. It’s a rare man who’ll even go near the place by day.”

“Because of the witch?”

“Because of the old woman,” he said. “She’s no more a witch than you are.”

“But people believe . . .”

“Let them. They’re no worse off than the fools who believe in your war.”

“All right, then. Go we shall. But first, we’ll ask Father Wilde if he will go with us.”

“No!”
Kehoe said. “No, ye will not bring the priest.”

“And why not?”

“I’ll have nothing to do with the filth of him. He deserves the madhouse worse than Mary Boland.”

“He hasn’t killed.”

Kehoe had shifted just enough to bring his face into the moonlight. Twas as hard-set and bitter as any face could be.

“He’s done worse than kill.” Slowly, lips testing each word, he said, “And ye know it yourself.”

“Does everyone know?”

“They know enough.”

“And nothing has been done?”

“A letter has been written. The diocese will look after him. We’ll tend to our own kind.”

“Well, tend to him you may. I suggest starting by getting Kathleen Boland’s corpse into the ground. Unless you want disease running through your valley. For now, Mr. Kehoe, I will tell you once and once only. I intend to ask the priest to come with us. He has some connection to Mary Boland, for she has been watching his house these many nights. I think he may have some power over her.”

Kehoe began to reply, then stopped himself. Even then, the Irish had secrets I was not allowed to know.

“Ask the filthy man if he’ll go with ye, then,” he told me, in place of what he had meant to say at first. “But Wilde’s a coward. I do not think ye’ll persuade him. All ye’ll have for your troubles is another great noseful of stink.”

“And you? Are you coming with us? Or not?”

“I’ll wait here. Until you’re done with your priest. I’ll not go any closer to that house.”

I aimed my steps up the path beside the graveyard, tapping along with Jimmy at my side.

“Jaysus, they’re a troubleful bunch,” he told me quietly. “That Kehoe’s from the civilized parts, but the rest of the lot are from Mayo and Sligo. And Donegal, more’s the pity. We always said in Dublin that the men from Donegal are wild barbarians. It’s the trees, don’t ye know.”

“The trees?”

“There’s hardly a tree in Donegal.”

“And what have trees to do with matters?”

“Lord, Abel, would ye not think for a moment? What kind of men do ye breed up without trees? In your own experience? Musselmens, Pushtoons, and Turks and all such like. Donegal’s naught but a desert what’s been misplaced. To tell ye the truth, I don’t believe they’re Irish. I’m surprised they even let Donegal men into the Church, for I’ve never known one who wasn’t a heathen at heart . . .”

We stood at the steps that led to the priest’s front door.

“Jimmy,” I said, “you might as well wait here for me. You have smelled your share of death in your day and do not need a snoutful for your troubles.”

“Well, if ye don’t mind me whiling, I believe I’ll pursue a cheroot.” He reached into his pocket.

I rapped on the door. Twas dark within, but I knew the priest could hear me. I called his name. After knocking four times, I walked a ring around the house’s exterior. This time, there was no light within that bedroom. But I could smell the monstrous stench within. I made my way back to the front door, where Jimmy stood puffing away. I knew I had been loud enough to
wake the priest. Either he refused to answer my summons, or he was abroad himself.

I tried the door. It was unlocked.

As soon as it opened, an enormous reeking hit me. Twas almost a physical blow.

The thing of it was that I did not smell death alone. I smelled dying, too. A particular form of dying that I knew a great deal too well. It was a compound of odors no man will ever forget once he has smelled it.

I clapped the door shut and recoiled, near tripping down the steps.

“Jimmy, get back, get away,” I cried. “It’s cholera.”

THE PRIEST LAY QUIVERING ON THE FLOOR, SMEARED with his own wastes. His flesh was discolored and anxious for death, but his fevered eyes resisted. It is a terrible thing to see, the way the spirit clings to life, as if it knows of terrors we do not. Bright with vomit, his lips yearned to form words. Perhaps he sought to pray.

I did not believe he knew that I was present. I had steeled myself to go into that house, armed with lucifer matches borrowed from Jimmy. I lit the first lamp I found, careful of the bandages on my hand. And I saw him lying beside a tumbled chair in his parlor, trousers pushed down in a hopeless attempt not to soil himself. That had been his last capable action, shoving down his trousers toward his knees and struggling with his underclothing. Thereafter, the priest had not moved from the spot where he fell, except to wriggle and twitch as the cramps swept through him.

I had forced myself to go into that house, not out of Christian charity, but because I hoped he might confess to me. To light my darkness with something near the truth of matters. But hard it was to force myself inside. Cholera terrifies me, far more than any other disease, or enemy blades or ball. It has taken so much, so wickedly much, from my life. But a man must do his duty, no matter his fears.

I felt that I was walking into a snake pit.

So strange it was. Twas not the cholera season. But I had known cases, and not a few, when the cholera lurked beyond the summer’s heat and struck the unsuspecting in their happiness. Just before Christmas, in ’54, it killed Jenny Merton, the prettiest lass in the civil lines, and broke every heart in the garrison. Then it spirited off the adjutant’s twins in the January drabs. Mick Tyrone believes it comes from bad water, while the old surgeons think there is something in the air. Perhaps the priest acquired the disease from keeping a corpse in his bed. That sounded likely to me. Or perhaps it was a judgement sent down upon him. Because he had lied about the cholera “death” of Danny Boland. Perhaps there is more justice than we know. And a harder justice than we might well wish.

Twas clear that the Irish had blackmailed the fellow into telling his cholera lies to the authorities. By threatening to expose his dalliance with Kathleen Boland. I saw that now. I even thought I saw into his torment. Yet, he had broken faith in so many ways I could not count them all.

I sometimes wonder if God is like a parent. He will forgive, but first you must have your punishment.

I wished to vomit myself, as I watched him lying there. The bouquet of stinks was so thick it greased the skin. For a time, I could not move another step.

In one of those lucid moments that enliven our march toward death, the priest sensed the light and another living presence. He grunted and pawed the air. Then his backside released another wave of wetness, and his legs kicked at his torments. The man was reduced to sputtering and slime.

I put the lamp down on a table out of reach of his jerking legs. And I took off my greatcoat, folding it over a chair not yet stained with sickness. The room was cold, the hearth long out. I moved myself toward the priest, one step at a time, forcing myself forward. When I was young and sturdier of heart, I had cradled the heads of dying soldiers as they spewed up the watery pudding the cholera cooks in our guts. But later events
had shattered all my iron, leaving me soft and weak. Now, I dreaded the thought of touching a sick man.

He tried to grasp an invisible handhold in the air above him, as if to pull himself up. It was not a moment before he splashed back in his slops. He groaned as if his insides had been torn.

I cowered. I am no more a Christian man than one of Darwin’s apes. His eyes burned. Nor do I mean that as a figure of speech. They were hot things, reddened, as if cooking from within.

He puled a few driblets from the side of his mouth. Rice water and blood.

“Bury . . .” he said.

Another of those waves of cramps possessed him. Weak though he was, he twisted and bent, chewed upon by the Furies in his belly. He spewed blood out his bottom. And I stood there.

“ . . . her . . .” he said, the moment he stopped his twisting and flopping about.

I marched myself forward, one small step at a time. Until I reached him. I tried to spy a clean spot on the carpet, a dry little space where I might rest my knee. But the priest had splashed a halo of filth around himself.

I knelt down beside his chest. Twas hardly an instant before I felt the moisture of disease seep through my trouser leg.

His eyes were closed, his breathing rapid but shallow. He tried to make a word, but failed again. For all the liquid lost to him, he managed to weep a pair of tears, one from each of his eyes.

Quick as an animal strikes, he grasped my forearm. With one hand, then with both. Clutching me madly, as if I might anchor him in our sea of life. Smearing my sleeve and my bandage.

“Bury me . . . with her.”

I tried to pry his fingers from my arm. But twas literally a death grip he had upon me. I pinched up the flesh of his thigh with my free hand, for that is how you judge the progress of the
case. The skin remained puckered in a ridge and did not resettle itself. There was too much water out of him.

By morning, he would be dead and blue of skin. And black of rot by evening.

“Bury me with her!”
he cried. Those bright, scorched eyes found mine.

“Yes,” I told him. “Yes. Certainly. Yes.” Although I had little idea what I was saying. Nor did I mean to promise anything. The truth is that I wanted him to let go of me. He had slopped his vomit all over my uniform. And my bandage was wretched with filth. I envisioned contagion crawling into my wound.

One of his hands released me. The priest fell back, shivering. His other paw slipped down to my bandaged hand, taking it as a child will, although my fingers could not respond to his grip.

Another pulse of spasms ravaged his body. He let go of me at once and I had to throw myself backward, away from him, to avoid being sprayed all over with puke and blood.

I only wanted to be clean. I am not made of the stuff of saints or martyrs. I felt less for that man than a Christian should have done.

He settled again, groaning. Applying his hands to his belly to soothe it, he instantly tore them away, as if he had just lowered them into flames.

I knelt, at a distance, watching him. I did not even think to pray myself. I barely thought at all.